


Five Times Dean Winchester Wasn't Blind, And One Time He Was

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: blind Dean</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Dean Winchester Wasn't Blind, And One Time He Was

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mtee](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mtee).



**1.**

Whap!

The stick caught Dean high on his left side that time, knocking him off balance. He tried to regain his footing but another, gentler prod immediately followed, and that was that. Falling off of the stump, he hit the ground hard and his breath rushed out in a pained grunt. He was gonna look real pretty by the time Dad finally laid off.

There was already a deep, warm ache along his ribs that told him he would be falling asleep to the scent of peppermint that night. Even with the rub, it was going to be almost impossible to move tomorrow, and there would still be the normal drills and exercises to run through before breakfast. If Dad hadn’t gone easy on him when he had that broken wrist a few months ago, then no way was he going to let Dean slack off because of bruises and some sore muscles.

“You need to concentrate.” Dad’s voice, hard and unyielding, came from somewhere to his left.

Dean pushed himself back up onto his hands and knees and felt around for the stump. “This is stupid,” he grumbled, even though he knew it was only going to piss Dad off more.

Dad was deceptively calm when he asked, “Why’s that?”

“Cause I’m not gonna be wearing _this_ in the middle of a hunt.”

Even in the midst of his complaints, Dean wasn’t dumb enough to do more than point in the vague direction of the blindfold Dad had tied over his eyes when he started his impersonation of a piñata. What he really wanted to do was take the stupid thing off and throw it at Dad’s feet, but he was pretty sure that if he gave in to that impulse, he’d be running double laps tomorrow.

Sore muscles absolutely notwithstanding.

“You’re right, you won’t.”

In the middle of climbing back onto the stump, Dean paused. “I am?” he asked incredulously.

“But,” Dad continued, “What if you’re on a hunt in the middle of the night and end up going underground? What if your flashlight goes dead?”

“It wouldn’t,” Dean replied. “Cause I’d check the batteries beforehand.”

“What if it got knocked out of your hand and broke?” Dad pressed.

Something in his father’s voice made Dean ask, “Is that what happened to you?”

Just last night, Dad had come home with a gash in his forehead and a limp in his step. He hadn’t been very forthcoming about what had gone wrong on a simple salt and burn.

Dad was silent for a long moment, and when he finally opened his mouth, it was only to say, “Get ready. And _listen_ this time: you should be able to hear me coming at you.”

Dean could hear the stress in his father’s voice, so he dropped his protest. It wasn’t like he didn’t see the point Dad was trying to make, anyway.

“Whatever you say, Obi-Wan.”

Dad’s breath huffed out in a surprised laugh at that and Dean felt a surge of happiness. It was a sound that came all too rarely these days.

“Tell you what,” Dad offered. “You get in touch with your inner Force, and we’ll go out for DQ tonight.”

Dean straightened unconsciously. “No kidding?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Deal,” Dean agreed, and then shifted into a fighting stance. Keeping his center of gravity low, he listened for the telltale swoosh of the branch coming toward him.

Later that night, Dean’s muscles were screaming bloody murder. But that was okay because Dad was grinning at him over the picnic bench, and his hot fudge sundae had never tasted so good.

 **2.**

“Damn it!” Dean rubbed at his knee while he kept hobbling toward the muffled sobbing. In his head he cursed the damned storm that had knocked the electricity out and turned the bedroom into hostile territory. He could have sworn that nightstand was further to the left when he went to bed, and speaking of furniture moving around, who the hell snuck in and put Sammy’s bed all the way over in Alaska while Dean was sleeping?

“Sammy?” he called softly. “Sammy, I’m right here, okay?” Only where _was_ here? Dean couldn’t even make out his hands, which were stretched out in front of him as he made his limping way toward his brother’s bed.

“D-Dean! Where a-are you?” Sammy called, and then Dean tripped over the edge of the bed and fell on top of his frightened little brother.

“Shit!” Dean swore, because Dad wasn’t there to call him on it and Sammy wasn’t really in any state to tattle on him. Then, trying to get back onto his own feet, he asked, “You okay?”

Sammy latched onto him, leach-like, and refused to let go. “Gonna get me, Dean! It was—it was looking a-at me and it w-was g-gonna—”

When he glanced in the general direction of the closet, Dean couldn’t even make out the door. Man, was it _dark_. He couldn’t even see Sammy, whose hair was tickling his chin.

“Don’t you have the gun Dad gave you?” Dean asked, feeling a little grumpier now that he knew what was going on.

“I p-put it in the drawer.”

“What the hell kinda good’s it gonna do in there?”

“I didn’t—didn’t want it. I’m scared of guns. They’re loud.”

 _Scared of nonexistent closet monsters, too,_ Dean thought with exasperation. He sighed.

“I know they’re loud, man, but you’ve gotta—they help, okay? They can protect you from the closet monster.” _And let me get a full night’s sleep for once._

Sammy’s demanding arms pulled him closer. “Want you to protect me.”

Despite his exhaustion and his annoyance and the pain in his knee, Dean felt a warm swell of pride at that.

“You’ll protect me, right?” Sammy begged.

“Sure I will,” Dean assured him. “You know that your big bro can take out a lousy closet monster any day of the week.”

Sammy nodded his head against Dean’s chest. Didn’t loosen his grip, though. “Can you stay here tonight?”

Oh, man. Sammy kicked like a mule in bed. And Dean’s knee wasn’t being all that shy about reminding him that his kid brother had already caused him enough injuries tonight.

“I’ll be, like, two feet away,” he tried.

“That’s too far. Please? What if it comes out and eats me?” Sammy sounded mostly over his fright by now, but he’d set his mind on keeping Dean here and Dean didn’t really have the heart to say no.

“Okay, I’ll stay for tonight. Tomorrow morning, though, you and I are gonna do some target practice.” Sammy had to get over this reluctance of his and start getting his head in the game, or Dad was gonna blow a gasket.

Petulantly: “Don’t need to.”

“What if I’m not here and the closet monster comes out?” Dean prodded, climbing underneath the covers and letting Sammy cling to him.

“You will be, won’t you?” Sammy’s heart beat like a jackrabbit’s against Dean’s side. “You’ll always be here?”

“Sure I will, Sammy,” he agreed. “You know I’ve got your back.” He only meant to placate his brother, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Dean knew that they were true. _Huh,_ he thought, and then into Sammy's pleased silence, he added, “But I need you to have mine, too."

Sammy was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Okay,” and snuggled closer.

 **3.**

Something soft ran down his chest and Dean twisted his torso automatically, trying to get away from the tickling sensation. He got a light, scolding slap to one of the arms that were stretched over his head for that, and Beth said, “Uh uh, Dean. No moving.”

“What is that?” he demanded, even though he was pretty sure he already knew.

“It’s a feather,” she answered, and then dragged it low over his stomach.

Dean swore, his muscles jumping, and then muttered, “It better not be pink.” He was all for trying out new shit, but you’ve gotta draw the line somewhere.

Beth giggled and brushed the feather further south, moving it over his hard cock like a shiver of kisses. That got another swear, and a buck of his hips that he couldn’t quite control. Turned out that the woman was an absolute sadist because she stayed there, kneeling between his legs and dusting that feather _(which was a deep, manly blue in his mind)_ repeatedly over his erection. There was no friction in the midst of all those gentle, teasing brushes, and Dean kept trying to thrust up past the feather and against her hand and missing completely.

When he was positive that he couldn’t stand another moment, the feather headed north again. Beth spent the next five minutes or so tickling his body at random: light brushes that he couldn’t prepare for because he couldn’t see or even hear them coming. Then there was a slow, solitary swipe of the feather across his dick again, before she went back to ignoring the only place on his body that he really wanted her to pay attention to.

Dean let her toy with him for another ten minutes before he finally blurted, “Come on, Beth; you’re killing me here.”

“Say please.”

Dean felt a scowl replace the need on his face. He would do a lot during sex _(and for it, for that matter)_ , but he didn't beg. Not ever.

Beth must have realized that he wasn’t going to say what she wanted because the feather was suddenly gone— _Beth_ was gone as far as he could tell. Not a great situation, seeing as he was tied to her bed, naked and blindfolded, but Dean was pretty sure he’d be able to get out of these knots with a little effort. He wasn’t a Winchester for nothing.

Still, he didn’t want to _have_ to get out of them. Beth had promised him that it would feel awesome: that all the sensations would be mind-blowingly heightened … but you had to actually have sex to experience something like that.

“Beth?” he called tentatively.

Her answer was completely unexpected and in no way verbal. A small hand closed around his cock and positioned it and then, with no more warning than that, Beth dropped down on him.

“Holy fuck!” Dean shouted, as that hand was replaced by a warm, wet vise. It was so hot inside her, and he could feel every flutter that her muscles made as they adjusted to him. She braced herself on his chest, curling her fingernails into his skin and starting to move before he had fully processed what was going on.

Beth didn’t say anything, and after that first exclamation, Dean took a cue from her and shut up himself. With no sights to distract him, and no sounds aside from their respective panting, the only thing he had to concentrate on was how it felt inside her. Was that slick friction and the hungry tightening of her muscles as she drew herself almost completely off of him before dropping back down.

It was over embarrassingly quick, but Beth didn’t tease him about it. She only kissed him lightly on the forehead and whispered, “See? Told you you’d enjoy yourself.”

Damn. Just … damn.

But Dean was nothing if not a gentleman, so he twisted his hands and pulled just _so_ and freed himself. Grabbed for her and got her on the first try, then rolled them so that he was blanketing her with his body. Threading the fingers of one hand through her hair while pulling the blindfold off with the other, he looked down at her.

Beth looked flushed and needy and really pleased with herself. He supposed that she should be, but it was the first two things that interested him right now.

Offering her his widest grin, Dean dangled the blindfold from one finger. “My turn.”

 **4.**

Dean had a few problems with this hunt. The first was that Dad abandoned him in Buttfuck, Nowhere a few days in to hare off after God knows what. Dean was pretty sure that Dad wouldn’t have gone if he’d known just what they were after, but still.

The second was that it took Dean over a week to figure out what was going on. During that time, four more men went missing, so you’d have to excuse him if he wasn’t all that thrilled with bearing sole responsibility for this one.

The third was that the goddamned thing shouldn’t even _exist_ , according to Dad, and Bobby, and Caleb, and everyone else he’d called for advice. Dean still had the ugly bitch herself staring him in the face, of course.

He was gonna do his best not to stare back.

“Fucking gorgon,” he growled under his breath as he felt his way deeper into the cave.

He had his eyes squeezed shut and a machete coated with a mixture of olive oil and bull’s blood in one hand. He’d considered bringing a mirror and using that, but in the end he wasn’t willing to risk his neck on the basis of a bunch of two-thousand-year-old myths. No reflections, no shadows, no seeing _period_. Best to be safe. Although how he was supposed to cut the bitch’s head off when he couldn’t even see it …

Something slithered up ahead of him and Dean instantly went still. Had she seen him? Was that even her? There was no way of knowing unless he opened his eyes and took a peek, but … well, as handsome of a statue as he’d make, Dean wasn’t all that eager to spend the rest of eternity as an oversized paperweight.

He adjusted his grip on the machete and moved forward, following that faint slithering sound. As he got closer, he could hear something hissing. Wait: didn’t all those Greek paintings and statues of Medusa show her with snakes instead of hair? _Venomous_ snakes? Oh, this was so not cool.

“Hunter.”

Dean froze like he’d accidentally peeked, his heart hammering in his chest. Shit. Shit, she’d seen him and he still had no fucking idea how this was supposed to work. It had been years since he’d bothered training to hunt blind, and it hadn't stuck as well as he was hoping.

If he survived this, Dad was gonna kick his ass.

“Have you come to kill me?” the gorgon asked, and Dean heard her slither closer.

He kept his mouth shut and shifted his weight, listening: trying to gage how close she was, when he could strike.

A hand closed around his and he almost opened his eyes at the shock of it. At the last second, though, he bit his tongue instead. He tried to take a step back and pull free, but the gorgon’s grip was like the stone that she surrounded herself with.

“My neck is here, Hunter,” she said, raising his arm so that he could feel the end of the machete resting against something solid. “I ask only that you strike quickly and true.”

“W-what?” Dean croaked out. This whole thing was going down ass backwards on him, and he hated shit like that.

“You wonder why I seek the oblivion of death?”

Not in so many words he didn’t: he was still more in the vicinity of _‘huh’_? But he nodded anyway.

“You would long for it as well, had you borne a curse such as mine. I was beautiful once, you know.” She sounded wistful—longing—but her grip on Dean’s wrist didn’t loosen. In his mind he could see the business side of the machete dimpling the skin of her throat.

“I was lovely and young and men worshipped me,” she continued. “And now this. An eternity of loneliness, lurking in the dark places of the world. I have been waiting for the grey-eyed goddess to release me for so long, but she is dead now. All the old gods are dead. Your kind is my last hope of freedom.”

Dean’s mind started up again. “You killed those men knowing that someone would come to try and stop you,” he said.

“Yes.”

He’d been feeling sorry for her a little, despite himself, but now his anger rose again. “Why didn’t you just off yourself if you’re so desperate?”

“I fear it too much. I need your aid.”

Dean snorted bitter laughter at the selfishness of immortal things. They never fucking _thought_. Never wondered if the lives they were taking meant anything to the people they stole them from.

“You want it, you’ve got it,” Dean growled, and this time when he went to pull his hand back, she let him.

 **5.**

The damned brujo’s final spell hit Dean in the face just as he was driving his knife past the thing’s ribs and into its heart. He waited for that eerie glow to go out of the brujo’s eyes and then pulled the blade free, letting the thing’s body drop to the floor. He didn’t feel _bad_ , or anything, but death curses could be a real bitch. Maybe when they got back to the motel he’d have Sam check him out anyway. Better safe than sorry, right?

Speaking of Sam …

Dean turned to berate his little brother for letting the brujo get the drop on him and found the basement empty. Not good. Heart rate accelerating, Dean sprinted to the bottom of the stairs leading up to the rest of the house and shouted, “Sammy!”

“I’m right here, Dean. You okay? It looked like it nailed you with that last one.”

Dean turned around, expecting Sam to have popped up from somewhere, but the room was still empty. Fuck. “That son of a bitch made you invisible!” he growled. If he could, he’d raise the thing just so he could kill it all over again.

“Um, I hate to break it to you, Dean, but I don’t think this is a problem with me.”

“What? Of course it’s a problem with you: you’re fucking see-through.”

“Dude, your eyes are messed up: looks like they’re filmed over with some milky-blue stuff.”

Something hard poked at his right eye, proving that yes, Sam was there, and he was still an asshole. Dean took a step back, batting in the direction he thought his brother’s arm was.

“Stop poking me in the eye, man!” he complained.

“You really need to take a look at this,” Sam said, unperturbed. “Isn’t there a mirror in the hall upstairs?”

Yeah, there was. Scowling, Dean stomped up the stairway and over to the mirror. He stood there staring at it for almost a minute and then said, “This thing’s broken.”

“It’s not ‘broken’, Dean,” Sam said from directly behind him.

Dean jumped. “Don’t _do_ that, man! Make some noise or something, for crying out loud.”

“So you can’t see yourself either, huh?” Sam asked.

“What? Of course I … huh. That’s weird.” Dean stared down at his body. Or the place where his body would be if he could see it. “You can still see me, though? I’m not invisible?”

Sam smacked him upside the head as proof that he knew exactly where Dean was, and then said, “Would you quit it with the invisibility thing? No one’s invisible. That death curse messed up your vision somehow.”

“How come I can still see everything else?” Dean demanded.

Sam’s breath huffed out in an annoyed exhale. “Do I look like a brujo to you?”

“You don’t look like anything to me right now.”

“Ha ha. Why don’t we—wait a minute.” There was a new note in Sam’s voice, like he just figured something out. “Go look out the window and tell me what you see.”

Grumbling under his breath about pushy brothers, Dean made his way over to the window. His mouth dropped open. “What the hell?”

“All the trees are gone, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, except for that big-ass oak across the street.”

“The one without any leaves?” Sam prodded, and he was right behind Dean now, probably peering over his shoulder.

“Yeah. No grass either.” Dean stiffened suddenly, and then said in a half-strangled voice, “Tell me that there’s a dog attached to that floating leash.”

“Beagle. There’s also a man holding onto the other end, if you’re curious.”

“What the _fuck_ , Sam?” he demanded, staring with a kind of morbid fascination at the bouncing, floating line of cloth.

“It’s called Eye of the Dead. You can’t see anything that’s alive.”

Dean blinked. “What the hell kind of lame ass curse is that? I mean, it’s freaky and everything, but …”

“I don’t think it was meant as a death curse.” Sam’s voice was wry. “I think the brujo was trying to get away. Be a lot easier to get past you if you couldn’t see it.”

“Well, hell,” Dean said, stumped.

“Don’t worry. It’ll probably wear off in a few days.”

“What’m I supposed to do until then?” Dean demanded, turning to scowl in the general direction of his brother’s voice.

“I dunno. I figure I’ll get you some of those blind man sunglasses and introduce you to everyone as Ray Charles’ long lost love child.”

“Funny.”

“I think so.”

The really annoying thing was that Dean didn’t have to see his brother’s face to know that he was smirking.

 **6.**

“Just keep your gutter soul. It’s too tarnished, anyway,” she whispered.

Dean’s heart hammered as he bargained desperately with the bitch. He could tell she was just toying with him, but that didn’t matter to the broken place inside of him where the memory of Sam falling to his knees in the mud was looped on replay. It didn’t stop sheer relief from flooding him when he yanked her into a kiss before she could think better of making the deal.

When she had her taste of him, she bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood and then laughed when he jerked away, swearing.

“Pathetic,” she chuckled.

“It’s done then?” he asked, knowing the answer but needing to check. He was almost afraid to go back to the safe house. Afraid Sam would still be lying there cold and motionless. That this was all just a joke to the bitch.

Her lips curved in a smile. “Mmm. You’re lucky I’m a sap for a pretty face.” She slipped closer, one hand ghosting over his cheek. “Cause really, that’s all you’ve got going for you.”

Dean shoved her away and her eyes flashed.

“Careful, Dean. You don’t want to piss me off right now.”

He really didn’t, but he was pretty sure he’d say something in another moment or two, so he grit his teeth and headed toward the Impala. The demon trailed along behind him.

“I’m sure you won’t regret this,” she purred. “Not like Daddy.”

Dean’s spine went stiff as he fumbled for the door handle. She pressed up along his back as he hunted for it, pushing him down against the metal.

“Took him all of three days to realize that he shelled out for a worthless … broken … trinket.” Her breath was hot on the back of his skin, and for some reason he still couldn’t find the goddamned handle.

“Shut up,” he tried to shout. It came out as a weak whisper.

“I’m doing you a favor, really,” she continued, ignoring him. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll collect before Sammy figures out what a pathetic waste you are.”

Dean’s fingers finally caught on the handle and he shrugged the demon off. Amused laughter chased him as he threw himself inside and slammed the door shut on her. When he drove away, he didn’t look to see if she was watching.

Later, with Sam alive and warm in his arms, Dean’s chest still felt hollow and shredded.

The problem was that part of him was still back at that crossroads, listening to the demon’s knowing whispers. The problem was that the bitch had ripped his blinders off with a few choice words and that sly smile, and now he couldn’t _not_ see what he’d been hiding from.

He was a fuck up. He was the reason Dad died; he let Sam get killed. As usual, he couldn’t step up to the plate when it mattered.

The demon had said that it took John three days to realize that trading his life for Dean was a mistake.

All Dean could wonder, now that he saw himself clearly for the first time, was why it took him so long.


End file.
